


September 20th

by HappyJuicyfruit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, M/M, PTSD John, Suicidal Thoughts, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 08:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5157011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyJuicyfruit/pseuds/HappyJuicyfruit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock keeps reliving the same day.  He isn't very happy about it. </p>
<p>-- </p>
<p>One day? A fluke. Two days? Entertaining. But four? Four days repeating an already boring day?</p>
<p>Sherlock growled under his breath and shoved his laptop away, uncaring when it fell off the opposite end of the table and smashed onto the floor.</p>
<p>Wrapping himself in his dressing gown, Sherlock faced the back of the couch. He curled up into a ball and squeezed his eyes shut.</p>
<p>He would not live through this day again. It could continue without him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	September 20th

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it is a Sherlock version of Groundhog Day.  
> I hope you enjoy it!
> 
>  
> 
> Read the tags for warnings: there are scenes of suicidal thoughts and drug use in this fic.

Day 1:

 

His day started perfectly normally. He woke up at 8 am after his usual 4 hours of sleep, wrapped himself in his dressing gown and slinked out of his room.

Stealing tea, toast and newspaper from his flatmate, Sherlock slumped into the closest chair at the kitchen table. John babbled on about something or other, probably complaining about work or a girlfriend. Sherlock replied when necessary, but he wasn't really listening, John probably knew that though, so if didn't matter. Eventually John went off to clean their flat for the clients they had scheduled for today.

Later, he and John got dressed and listened to said clients.

Sherlock threw three out for boring him, two for being simple adultery, one for being a lunatic, and finally took a case about a robbery.

They went to the scene of the crime, and had a wonderful time. After a few minutes Sherlock was able to figure out that it was the pet bird who had caused the whole ordeal, having collected a number of shiny objects from around their flat no one else had missed. Idiots.

John complimented him on his genius, which is always nice.

Afterward, John wanted to get Chinese or something, probably because it was their post-case solving custom but Sherlock scoffed, this was hardly a case. It had only taken 2 hours for gods sake.

Sherlock went back to their flat and John went off for a walk. Or to the pub. He wasn't sure, but Sherlock had gotten bored after the silly little case had ended and was thinking of an experiment instead, John would pop up again eventually. He always did.

Sherlock settled down at the kitchen table with his microscope and fingernails. He didn't notice how much time passed. He did notice when John limped in, although he didn't know what time that was at. He glanced up when John failed to say hello, that was odd for him but not entirely uncommon. John seemed to look fine, so he went back to his experiment. He only noticed how much time had past when sunlight began to creep through the window again.

Sherlock moved his experiment over a bit, knowing a morning tea and toast John would not approve of a mid table experiment. Or an up all night Sherlock, so he went back to his bedroom, changed into pyjamas and crawled into his bed for the hour or two before John woke up.

Perhaps tomorrow he and John would find a more exciting case.

 

Day 2:

Sherlock woke up at 8 am, stretching and feeling much more rejuvenated than the two hours of sleep he had gotten. Perhaps he only needed two instead of the four he usually allowed for his body? He made a mental note to further test this theory.

Pulling on his dressing gown and sauntering out of his room he went to continue his experiment at the kitchen table. To his surprise, however, the experiment was not there.

Instead there was only John, sitting in his pyjamas bottoms and jumper, chewing on toast and reading the morning paper.

How infuriating.

"Why did you move my experiment?" Sherlock asked, walking up beside the table and glaring down at John.

John didn't even bother to look up at him, let alone be intimidated but Sherlock's looming. Very infuriating indeed.

"What experiment?" John asked back, mouth full of toast and jam.

"The experiment with the fingernails! Sitting on this table!" Sherlock gestured at the table wildly, like it would appear magically by pure will.

John stopped chewing and lifted his arms off the table top, "on the table?! Sherlock, we've talked about experiment boundaries, no where where I eat!" John had the gull to be the mad one right now.

"Don't be an idiot, not on the table, they were with my microscope, and labeled in bags. You should know, you moved it," Sherlock replied with an indignant huff, crossing his arms.

"You mean the microscope currently sitting on our coffee table with tea bags under it from where you got so bored of a Bond movie night you decided to experiment on our beverages?" John looked up at him with a grin and his 'Sherlock you're being an idiot again' face. Sherlock usually liked that face, it let him know that John thought Sherlock possible of being an idiot and, therefore, human, which was nice. Today, he did not like this face.

"Don't be tedious, John, that was two days ago. Last night you weren't even here, and I was doing my experiment with fingernails. Now, where did you put them?"

John was now wearing his 'I am genuinely concerned about your state of mind' face, this one was also nice because of the concern, but mostly annoying because of the concern for mental instability.

"What are you talking about? Last night I was with you. Unlike you I was actually watching the movie, but still the same room until I went off to bed. I don't know what you did after that, but I haven't touched your microscope, it's still there," John gestured toward the table in question.

Sherlock turned to point out the many flaws in John's story but abruptly stopped. The microscope was indeed sitting on the coffee table with tea bags. The bond DVD and a bowl of popcorn kernels still sat out from where John had left them. The room was precisely as it had been the day before, before the clients had arrived. Before John cleaned.

How? Conclusion: John was playing a prank and had reconstructed the area perfectly. But no, that didn't work, John's memory was good for the average but inadequate to pull that off well enough to fool Sherlock.

Someone else had done it? Mrs Hudson? No. Mycroft? Possible, but in Ireland right now. Moriarty? Possible, need more data. Unknown? Unlikely.

Sherlock heard a crunch behind him, telling him John had gotten over the rewriting of time and was eating toast again. Sherlock knew John was good under pressure, but he was being ridiculously calm.

Perhaps he was unaware their flat looked like it reverted a day? Was he serious about not knowing what happened last night?

Best solution: harassment. John always responded best under agitation.

Sherlock turned back and ripped the paper out of John's hands, "last night. Where were you?!"

John attempted to make a grab for the paper, but Sherlock held it higher out of reach, earning himself a glare from his flatmate.

"I bloody told you, I was watching a movie with you! Jesus give me back my paper, it's too early for this!"

Sherlock slammed the paper back into the table, "if you were watching a movie with me yesterday evening, than what is today's date?!" Sherlocks dramatics fell significantly when he looked down to see that it was the same paper from yesterday too, with the same date.

"It's September 20th, Sherlock. Now stop it and give me my paper."

"No. No, yesterday was September 20th!"

"Trust me, it's September 20. I know when it's September 20. You barely know when it's September let alone September 20, so forgive me if I don't believe you." John was suddenly up and walking away, storming towards the stairs. Had Sherlock been too aggressive with the harassing? Unlikely, John should be used to such dramatics by this point, Sherlock has explained John's irregular truth telling under duress before. Needed more data.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to get dressed, we have clients scheduled for the whole day of September 20, incase you forgot."

"Clients? This is too important to care about clients!"

"Do you pay us to care about the date?"

"Don't be ridiculous-"

"Then we are seeing the clients. Put some clothes on. Or not. Just don't walk out in a sheet again."

John marched off up the stairs. Sherlock wondered if clients would even show up, or if John and the flat had not been the only things that had been reversed in time. He needed more data, so he went to get dressed for the clients.

John acted just as he has the day before, letting the clients in, taking everything they said seriously while sitting in his chair comfortably.

Sherlock copied what he had done yesterday for the first client, listening to everything they had to say before throwing them out for being boring. Today he threw then all out for being boring, some before they even opened their mouths. Except for telling the robbery that it was their pet bird. John didn't compliment him today for that but looked at him like he was crazy.

Afterwards John didn't suggest Chinese, nor any kind of food. Sherlock was okay with this, he needed to do some research.

He spent the afternoon finding information on time loops, worm holes, a movie called Groundhog Day. He did not know when exactly John left, but he did notice when he returned; limping into their flat, ignoring Sherlock and heading to the kettle. Exactly as it had happened yesterday, Sherlock looked at the clock. 10 pm. He looked over at John. Like yesterday, he looked unharmed.

Except for the limp. Did he hurt his leg? He hasn't been limping earlier today, only last night and this night. What happened on these nights that caused the limp? Where was he going?

"Where have you been?" The question was out before he could stop it.

"Walking," John replied without turning around.

Sherlock frowned. He hadn't been paying much attention, but he was sure John had been gone for much longer than his normal walks.

"Walking where?"

John made an exasperated noise, "I don't know, around."

Interesting. John, the king of small talk, usually had specific or at least general area answers to direct questions. Unless he was mad at Sherlock. Sherlock pondered that for a moment... He could not think of anything in the last week that he had done that would have caused such anger.

Interesting.

September 20 had proved to be an exceedingly ordinary day twice in a row. John's limp was the only interesting thing happening today.

Sherlock stood up and walked into the kitchen, leaning against the table and observing John. John was hunched over the counter, even leaning he favoured his left leg. His head was bend forward, hands splayed out in front of him. Up closer Sherlock could see that his knuckles were red, and some of them bloody. The rest of John looked the same as before he had left.

It appeared as though John had gotten into a rather one sided fight on his 'walk'.

"Anything interesting happen while you were out?" Sherlock asked in a casual voice.

Johns shoulders stiffened, he was going to get defensive. Dammit. A defensive John was actually rather hard to get information out of. The opposite of an agitated John, even if these moods would have looked almost identical to an untrained eye – in other words, anyone else.

He tried to ease the tension, make it seem like he was here for something other than to talk, "make me a cup too."

Not good enough, Sherlock never came into the kitchen to get his own tea. Glancing around he picked up the newspapers that had been abandoned this morning and began flipping through, hoping his apparent disinterest was good enough.

John only hesitated for a moment before reaching to get Sherlock a cup from the cupboard. They both watched as his left hand started to shake before it even reached the knob. John clenched his fist and used his right hand to get the cup down instead.

John Watson was proving to be the biggest clue of the day, Sherlock hadn't seen his hand shake since the first week they'd moved in together several months ago. Interesting indeed.

Sherlock let John prepare their tea without disruption. He accepted the mug placed in front of him without a word, and only spoke when John made a move to leave the kitchen.

"Regularly break the skin of your knuckles on your walks, do you?"

John froze mid sip, mug poised in front of his face, left hand shaking in a fist at his side.

He swallowed his tea before replying, "what's it to you?"

"Should I not be concerned about my flatmates well being?"

"I'm fine. Just leave it."

"Why should I?"

John didn't reply, just headed towards the stairs.

Sherlock got up and followed him, possibly a bad idea, John was very angry and showing symptoms of distress. But Sherlock needed answers.

"John, wait, just tell me who you fought wi-" he reached for John's shoulder without even thinking. the next moment he was on the ground, out of breath, with a very disgruntled looking John pinning him there.

They stayed like that for a moment, staring at each other. Sherlock did not dare move first.

Finally John blinked and seemed to realize what he was doing.

"Jesus!" He stepped back off of Sherlock, turning away and running his hands over his face.

Sherlock stayed on the ground to look smaller, but he did sit up and straighten his shirt.

John turned back, "fuck, Sherlock, are you alright? Are you hurt?"

"Fine. Entirely my fault, shouldn't have grabbed you."

This statement just seemed to make John more agitated, "your fault? You should be able to touch your friend without getting tackled to the ground, Sherlock, Jesus."

Sherlock blinked in surprise. John had called him his friend. And entirely off handedly. That felt.. Nice. He would need to revisit that later.

Right now he needed to calm down his distressed.. Friend.

"It's alright, John. I'm fine. You're fine. Just breath."

John did take in a shaky breath, but that didn't seem to calm him. He looked at Sherlock sitting on the floor and looked like he was going to help Sherlock stand up, but stopped at his first step forward. They both looked down to see the remains of John's forgotten teacup, smashed on the floor under John's foot. Without another word, John spun around and marched up the stairs. Yes, it did appear to be actual marching.

Sherlock scrambled up and ran after him, but didn't make it in time before John had slammed his door.

"John! Let me in!" This was getting tedious, why wouldn't John just talk to him?

"Just leave me alone, Sherlock!" John shouted through the door. His voice sounded strained, but it was close and low to the ground.

John was sitting against the door hyperventilating.

"John, calm down and listen to my voice, alright? You need to regulate your breathing."

They sat with the door between them for a few minutes, John trying to calm his rapid breath and Sherlock trying to listen to it.

Finally, John spoke again in a much better voice. Although not what Sherlock wanted to hear, "just leave Sherlock, I'll be better tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's too far, I need answers now!" Sherlock growled.

"Sorry my emotional breakdown is at an inconvenient time for you." John huffed through the door. Then Sherlock heard some ruffling, and then the noise of John walking away and closing another door. He was changing out of his clothes, and clearly had no plans of talking to Sherlock again tonight.

Damn. He needed a plan. Perhaps they would be able to talk tomorrow. Maybe Sherlock would only loop once? Maybe he could break the loop if he stayed awake the next day. It had happened when he was asleep, he just had to not sleep. Easy.

He went downstairs and looked at the clock, 12:30 am. He had made it to September 21, fantastic. Now just to make it to 8 am on September 21.

Easier said than done.

Sherlock settled down on the couch with John's laptop, researching PTSD and triggers. He had done this when John had first moved in, obviously, but he was looking for specifics.

Unfortunately, it appeared everything on the planet could be a trigger depending on the traumatic event.

Useless.

Sherlock went back to looking up time loops, he ended up watching an episode from a show called 'Supernatural'. At least John hadn't died for the last 2 days.

Before long Sherlock looked at the clock to see that it was 7:23 am, September 21. Perfect. Morning, right day.

He listened for John upstairs but only heard his light snoring.

No matter how deeply asleep he sounded though, Sherlock knew he would be up soon. He never slept past eight.

Sherlock got up to make some tea and toast, an apology for last night.

At 7:50, Sherlock was sipping his cup of tea listening to John waking up upstairs.

He looked at his phone again, still September 21. Perhaps yesterday had merely been a hallucination of sorts. Had he been slipped a drug without realizing it?

He tried to think of all the different kinds of drugs that could cause such a thing.

He looked back at his clock again, 7:59 am. He blinked.

And opened his eyes to 8:00 am on his night stand table.

Wait, his nightstand? No. No no no no.

He has been in the kitchen! He has beaten it!

Sherlock thrashed around and fell out of bed, jumping to his feet and grabbing his dressing gown with his phone in the pocket.

8:01 am, September 20.

 

Day 3:

"Aaaarrgh!!"

Sherlock threw his phone across the room, and watched as it split into three pieces.

"Jesus, what's wrong?" He heard distantly from the kitchen. John was up and eating toast then, again.

Not the tea and toast Sherlock had made, no. The toast from the past two days.

He ran his hands through his hair in frustration.

He heard John walking down the hall to his room, no limp. Nothing to apologize for after all, as if it had never happened. Sherlock made another noise of exasperation.

John appeared in the doorway looking mildly concerned.

"What is it? Do you have a case that I didn't know about?" He looked confused, Sherlock apparently only had emotional responses to cases. Good to know.

He spun towards John, hands falling away from his hair in the process.

"What day is it, John?"

"Uh, Thursday? I think?"

Was it? Huh. But no, "the date. What's the date?"

"September 20."

"This is impossible!" Sherlock growled, storming past John into the kitchen. Everything's the same. It's gone back to the same.

This was infuriating.

John was making some joke about the passing of time or dates or whatever.

Sherlock was at a loss, something he did not readily admit.

He repeated the same day, for the third time, but this time in silence.

John kept giving him odd looks, especially when he didn't say anything to the clients but just waved them away with his hand, but he didn't question it.

Which was wonderful, really. He spent this time thinking of John instead. John had called him his friend yesterday, did he still think that? Had the time loop erased that? Sherlock hoped it hadn't, because after some thought, he thought of John as a friend as well.

By definition alone, they were friends. Two people who enjoyed spending time together and supported each other in times of need. They very much enjoyed spending time together, if John's giggles at their crime scenes meant anything. And they often watched out for each other while they were chasing particularly violent criminals. These thoughts made Sherlock's chest warm in a rather odd but pleasant way. Which was.. nice.

On this September 20, Sherlock did not allow John to wander off by himself. This meant that he was there with him in the pub when a group of rather rude ex-military men walked in. And he was there when they tried to call John in to join their game of darts. He was there, this time, to help John limp his way back home after he had gotten into a fight with another ex-soldier.

Sherlock should have known that John would get into a fight with a fellow ex-soldier over something as foolish as respect for waiters. Once a Captain, always a Captain, apparently.

At least he had solved the reason for John's returned limp.

  


Day 4:

Sherlock stared at the calendar on this laptop. This had to be a mistake.

One day? A fluke. Two days? Entertaining. But four? Four days repeating an already boring day?

Sherlock growled under his breath and shoved his laptop away, uncaring when it fell off the opposite end of the table and smashed onto the floor.

Wrapping himself in his dressing gown, Sherlock faced the back of the couch. He curled up into a ball and squeezed his eyes shut.

He would not live through this day again. It could continue without him.

Sherlock listened as John moved about the flat. Listened as John talked to the boring clients. Ignored John as he went on a boring rant about work responsibility. Listened to the silence of their boring flat after John slammed his way outside. And then listened as John made his way back into their flat much more quietly some time later.

Boring, boring, boring.

He must have fallen asleep at some point in all the dull tedium, because the next thing he knew he was opening his eyes to his alarm clock.

Reading 8:00am, September 20.

 

Day 5:

He didn't even think about it, as he walked past John eating his toast in the kitchen to make his way upstairs.

Sherlock punched John's code into the little safety box like he knew it by heart instead of guessing it 5 seconds beforehand.

He pulled out the gun and pushed in the bullets. Took off the safety and pushed the head into his mouth.

That's not true, he did think about it, a little.

He wondered how many times John had gotten this far himself, in the months after the war before he met Sherlock.

He wondered if John would do it again after Sherlock left.

He wondered if he should maybe not do this in John's room.

But then he heard John calling up to him about about their clients, again. And Sherlock couldn't handle it.

He wondered if he was being a bit too extreme.

He pulled the trigger.

 

  


Day 6:

Sherlock didn't even leave his bed.

John assumed he was sick.

Maybe he was.

 

  


  


Day 7-14:

Getting high was exactly as he remembered it.

It was freeing and exhilarating. It was sanity and breathing.

It was everything September 20 was not. But no matter how much he took he woke up stone cold sober the next morning, without even an itch for more. Like his last hit had been two years ago, not two minutes.

And every morning he had to walk out past John to get it. Who would sometimes find him, etched with disappointment, dragging him back to their flat. Sometimes John never found him.

Sherlock always wished he would, even with the disappointment.

In the end that's what made him stop.

 

Day 15-45:

Death and destruction were obviously not going to stop September 20, so Sherlock did what he was second best at, solving.

This was just another case, that was all.

So, Sherlock observed. Analyzed. Memorized.

He made minute changes to see if they would create different outcomes. They rarely did.

He tracked down the backstory of every person he came in contact with that day. They were all dull.

He tracked back the history of every item he came into contact with each day. Also dull.

He made an entire new room in his mind palace for the day of September 20. He would delete this room as soon as he made it to the 21st.

He went so far as to ask Mycroft for help once, but then had had a "randomly selected" drugs bust. He never tried that again.

Nothing seemed to improve or change whatsoever! It was agonizing!

This was not Moriarty! This was not any of the vindictive criminals Sherlock had ever faced (he knew, he'd tracked them all down). This was not Mycroft. Or Mummy. Or even Mrs. Hudson's suspicious friend with the funny eye.

This didn't appear to be caused by anyone Sherlock Holmes met on this horrid day.

He was beginning to worry that he was going to be forced to sit opposite John and watch him eat his toast for the rest of time.

This was horrifying.

And the fact that his brain so helpfully supplied that at least he was with John did not make matters any better.

  


  


Day 46:

Sherlock paced their sitting room, watching John eating his toast, wondering what it was that John thought about on this, the worst of all days.

Did he remember anything from the other September 20's? Did he dream about them?

Wait. Of course! Time shifted whenever John got up, Sherlock had spent several days not going to sleep, but John had always passed out eventually. Sherlock needed to keep John awake.

"John!" Sherlock twirled and almost ran right into him. He gripped John on both shoulders tightly, making sure he knew how serious this was.

Sherlock was silently glad he did not get tackled to the floor again. That had happened about five times now.

"You are not to leave the house today. Do you understand? We sit here, we see no one, we do nothing."

"Sherlock, what about the clients?"

"No! No clients, all the clients are boring anyway. Call them and cancel, no wait? Don't talk to anyone, I'll do it!"

Sherlock pulled out his mobile and started dialling their numbers he had memorized over the past few weeks, leaving John alone and confused in the middle of the sitting room. His left hand was clenching in and out of a fist but that was his only sign of agitation.

Sherlock ignored him and began to call everyone off of the list, telling them that they were not to come today, all appointments were cancelled and hanging up before they could reply.

Eventually, John gave an annoyed huff and turned back to the kitchen for his toast.

Sherlock finished calling everyone on the list, relieved.

Now all he had to do was ensure that John didn't leave the house today.

 

  


This proved to be far more difficult than Sherlock had anticipated.

After John finished his toast he went upstairs to get dressed. Sherlock allowed this. John could do anything as long as John did not leave the building.

Unfortunately, as John made his way downstairs he continued on past their doorway towards the exit of their building.

They ended up shouting in the stairwell, John saying he needed something to do today if they weren't going to have clients, Sherlock telling him that leaving the building was not an option. He would have to find something inside.

It ended with Sherlock physically manhandling John back up the stairs (lucky for Sherlock, John only ever got violent against Sherlock when he was showing symptoms of PTSD. It was never by choice), and with John telling him yet again that he was an emotionless robot, who did not understand humans at all.

That was fine. So long as John did not leave and come back limping and tired.

 

Even after this debacle John kept trying to sneak out whenever Sherlock looked like he was too preoccupied to notice where he was.

Sherlock was forced to put most of his attention towards John, watching horrible movies, playing card games, and even cooking dinner together.

The last one was worth it for the look on John's face when Sherlock rolled up his sleeves and stepped into the kitchen.

 

But it all turned out to be for naught when 8 pm rolled around and John stood up from his spot on the sofa during the middle of their third movie of the evening, and walked towards the kettle with a noticeable limp.

Sherlock paused mid critique, John didn't even notice.

Frowning, Sherlock tried to think what he had missed. John hadn't gone out, there had been no fighting outside or inside their flat.

John hadn't talked to anyone who would have upset him (Sherlock had hidden John's mobile to ensure it).

The film? Sherlock turned to the screen again, they were watching some Tolkien movie. Yes there was fighting, but surely swords and arrows wouldn't trigger a limp?

Had Sherlock himself caused this? Impossible, Sherlock never talked about Afghanistan unless John brought it up first. And even then he was extra careful of what he said. Despite what people believed, he wasn't completely ignorant of emotions.

 

So if it had not been a bar fight or anything else today that triggered the limp, than what?

Sherlock studied John as he came back from the kitchen, placing two cups on the coffee table with slightly trembling hands.

John sat back down with a groan, absently rubbing his thigh.

Sherlock looked at his clothes, his hands, his hair, his position on the sofa, anything! Anything that would explain this! Something was bothering John, what was it?

"Christ, Sherlock, could you quit it? You're creeping me out." John glanced at him sideways, frowning.

Good. Conversation would lead to more information! "Quit what?"

"Staring at me."

"...I regularly stare at you. Frequently for longer periods of time than this. Why does it bother you now?"

"Maybe it's always fucking bothered me, and I'm just bringing it up now."

"But again, why now?"

John rubbed both his hands over his face, "you know what? Forget it. It's fine."

He went back to pretending to watch the movie, although his mind was clearly on other things.

 

One time, in the first few weeks of their friendship, John had had a markably bad day. He had come home from the clinic silent and upset. Sherlock had spent that evening and most of the night trying to deduce what was wrong, but getting little information from John's outfit other then that it had something to do with the surgery.

Finally, at around 1 am (neither had wanted to go to bed that night, though for very different reasons), John had snapped and told him to 'take a picture, it would last longer.' Sherlock told him than pictures may not actually last longer depending on outside influence, and were not as sufficient for obtaining data.

John had asked what he bloody well needed data for, he already knew everything about John.

Sherlock told him that was entirely untrue.

John told him that if he really wanted to know something, he could bloody well just ask instead of leering over him all night. John would always answer.

So Sherlock had, and John had told him. Apparently one of his new patients was an old army acquittance, seeing a man he one knew to be whole with only one arm had been upsetting. Especially tied with John's nightmares of losing his arm as well as his leg (Sherlock did not verbalized that last point.)

Sherlock hoped that John would follow through with his promise of sharing again today.

 

"John?"

John flinched a bit, like he had already forgotten Sherlock was there.

"Yea?"

Sherlock paused. He wasn't sure how to ask what he wanted to know. Best to keep it simple, "what's wrong?"

John glanced at him again, "nothing," he answered with a shrug.

"Then why are you limping?"

John went rigid. Whatever he had been expecting this conversation to go, apparently this had not been it.

"I'm not. Just- I told you, Sherlock, everything's fine."

Sherlock frowned, why was he lying?

"It is obviously not fine, you are showing visible signs of agitation and emotional distress."

"Right," John stood up and then stood there for a moment. Apparently having no plan following the standing. "Look, just.. Today has been hard for me, alright? Could you please just leave it?"

He stood there for a moment more, and when Sherlock didn't reply, nodded to himself and limped toward the bathroom.

Sherlock sat in silence and listened as John turned the shower on and got into it.

Interesting. This was new. John rarely showered at night, and hadn't showered on any of the previous Thursdays after his initial agitation.

Perhaps this was progress.

Sherlock turned off the telly, it was obvious neither of them were watching the film.

Leaning back into the couch Sherlock put his hands together under his chin, thinking of the best way to get information out of John.

 

Twenty minutes later Sherlock still had no plan, and the water had just shut off. This in itself was concerning, as up till now John's longest shower since he'd moved in had been ten minutes long. And that had been in January, during a storm that had pained his shoulder.

John's showers were short, precise, with no lingering. Sherlock knew this came from his time in the army. He was secretly glad that John had kept up with his short showers, they came in handy for cases.

It was a shame though, Sherlock himself quite enjoyed a long shower, perhaps with some company John wouldn't mind -

Sherlock abruptly stopped himself there and stood up. He had no idea where that thought came from, and it obviously needed analysing. But he would think of it later, on September 21. 8:01 am, or anytime after that.

Sherlock made his way into the corridor leading to the bathroom. Perhaps if he caught John off guard on his way out of the loo (while pretending he was on his way somewhere else, of course), he would be able to get some answers out of him.

Not a very solid plan, but it was the only one he had. John could not go upstairs to bed. Better to fight for the next few hours than to relive this godforsaken day.

  


Sneaking up to the loo, Sherlock crept around all the squeaky floor boards and positioned himself outside the door, slightly to the left, and waited. And waited.

And waited some more.

What the hell was John doing in there?

A glance at his mobile told him it was nearly 10 pm, John had been in the bathroom for almost an hour.

And was making a disturbingly small amount of noise.

The more Sherlock thought about it, the more concerned he became. Many PTSD sites warned against suicide, but surely John wouldn't do that?

But there were so many ways to do it in the loo... Their razors were in there. And pills. And water John could drown himself with! Is that what the twenty minute shower had been for?!

My god, they practically had a killing room in their own home!

Panicked, Sherlock surged forward, stepping on an old warped board to get to the door.

The sudden creak of the floor board inside the completely silent flat was immediately followed by a much louder crash from inside the bathroom.

Sherlock was already attempting to open the door. The blasted thing was locked.

“John! John? Open the door!” Sherlock called out, knocking loudly.

John gave no reply, but Sherlock could now hear his heavy, irregular breathing.

Sherlock stopped knocking, not wanting to cause John any unnecessary alarm.  
“John? You have to calm down. Listen to my voice, breath in,” Sherlock himself audibly took a breath, “hold for ten seconds,” Sherlock counted to ten in his head, “breath out,” another audible breath. He repeated the instruction when John sounded like he was following along, and not telling him to piss off.

Sherlock paused to listen. Hearing John continue the breathing exercise without instruction, he decided to go find a way to get into the room.

Taking care to avoid any more creaking floorboards, Sherlock ran into his bedroom to grab his lock picks from his bookcase, before scurrying back to listen again to John.

Still taking controlled breaths. Good.

But Sherlock still needed to make sure John was okay. With or without his help through this blasted door.

“John? I need you to stay calm and do as I ask: open the door.” Sherlock called through.

He heard some movement behind the door, footsteps getting closer, but John seemed to stop just before the door. The door remained closed.

“John? Please, open the door.”

“How did you know?” John's voice came through, barely more than a whisper. If he had not been listening so intently, Sherlock may have missed it.

“How did I know what?” Sherlock asked.

“About... about me.”

“What about you, John?”

“About.. my limp. How did you know to look? You knew before I did.”

“I observe, John, you know my methods.”

“No. No, this was different. You've been acting weird all day. I didn't tell you about today, so how. How. Did. You. Know?” John asked in a steely voice, still no louder than a whisper. Which made it sound far worse than shouting, in Sherlock's opinion.

Sherlock paused. Had he been acting strange? Would it be more or less strange to tell your friend that he had been looking for symptoms because for the last forty six September 20ths in a row John had formed a limp?

Apparently pausing had been a mistake, as the door in front of him flung open and a disgruntled looking John came storming out of the toilet. Sherlock swept his eyes over him. He was wearing nothing except a towel wrapped around his waist, his eyes were red rimmed, and his left hand was bleeding around shards of glass.

He had little time to worry about these things, however, as Johns right hand was shoved in front of Sherlocks face, pointing accusingly.

“Who told you?!”

“Who told me what?” Sherlock replied calmly, but stood his ground.

“Don't try to be coy. About today, Sherlock, who told you what today was?”

"Today.. Today is important to you? Of course, you've mentioned it before. In passing. I thought it unimportant, teasing or speech patterns, but no. You meant it! Today is important to you! Oh, brilliant!" Sherlock swivelled in place, smiling at finally figure out something new.

Johns anger didn't allow this happy breakthrough to last for long.

"I never bloody told you about today!" John yelled. His face growing more red.

"Right. No, you did not. But it's important to you, that much is obvious."

John covered his face in his hands before throwing then up in the air in frustration. "Sod this, I'm going to bed."

Wait, no. Nonono! He'd just made a break through! He only needed John up 9 more hours anyway. Distractions, distraction- his eyes caught on to the red drips following John down the corridor.

"John, wait, your hand."

John stopped walking and looked down, examining his hand. Good, he would come back, allow Sherlock to help him.

“I'll bandage it in my room,” John replied before he continued walking forward. Right. John was a doctor. He could do that sort of thing.

“John, no, wait!” Sherlock scurried after him to the stairs, stopping short of grabbing Johns arm.

John whirled on him anyway, “Jesus, Sherlock, leave me _alone_!”

“But you can't go upstairs! I need you!”

“You. Need me?” John glared daggers at him, “Sherlock, I just punched the fucking mirror in the toilet, I really can't be there for _you_ right now.”

Sherlock floundered, “right. Of course, yes. But I could help you with-”

John had already started going up the stairs again.

“No, John, wait, I'm sorry-”

Eyes swept over John desperately before landing on his still bleeding hand. Well, more like fist. But still, bleeding. "You're bleeding,"Sherlock finished rather lamely.

But thankfully John paused in his stomping. Sherlock could see John hesitate for a moment, obviously wanting to return to where he could use a sink to clean his injury.

Shamelessly, Sherlock jumped on his hesitance, "come back, I'll help you bandage it."

There, good. That's what people did, yes? Help friends who have been injured?

Sherlock felt rather proud for thinking of offering.

But apparently he had said the completely wrong thing as John did not turn back around, and seemed to forget about his hand entirely.

"I don't need your help, Sherlock." John spat at Sherlock over his shoulder.

"Don't be an idiot, John, you're bleeding."

"Oh yes, I'm the idiot. You're the one who has once again forgotten that I'm a doctor, was a bloody army doctor!"

Confused, Sherlock tried to back track, "no, I didn't -"

"Oh you didn't forget? You're just making it super obvious you think I need a babysitter now? That I can't handle some bleeding knuckles?"

"What? That's not remotely-"

"You've been babysitting me all day! Stop lying!"

"John-"

John finally turned around and whatever retort Sherlock had been planning to make died in his throat. Johns face was full of anger, yes, to be assumed, but it was also full of despair. At some point Sherlock had totally lost control of this conversation.

"I know I'm pathetic Sherlock, but I didn't realize you were so cruel that you would make it so bloody obvious you thought so too."

Sherlocks eyebrows knit together, "no, I do not think that."

A single tear began to make it's way down John's cheek. It was possibly the saddest thing Sherlock had ever seen.

"You do. You've made it very clear today."

"What did I do today that was any different from any other day? I boss you around every day."

"Not like this. Jesus, Sherlock, you didn't even let me leave the flat."

Sherlock didn't know what to say to that, the truth?

John looked at him with his tear stained, sad face, and then sighed heavily.

"Just, forget it. Let the wounded army vet go sleep, yea?"

Sherlock watched John as he walked his way slowly up the stairs. Limping all the way.

John made it to the top and sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging. When he spoke, he didn't even turn around, “It's not you, Sherlock. I'm sorry but I can't help you tonight.. I don't trust myself.”  
Something about John's voice sent shivers down Sherlocks spine. He sounded so defeated. So lonely.

Sherlock fought with himself with going up the stairs or staying away, at a total loss for what to do. John would have known what to do if the situation was reversed..

What would John do? John was good, loyal, honest. Sherlock was none of these things.

Could he be? For John?

For John, it was worth a try.

John was still standing on the top of the stairs, as if waiting for Sherlock to dismiss him.

That was never going to happen.

“I trust you, John.”

John did not reply, but did not move either.

Slowly, he started to make his way up the stairs.

“Between the two of us, I believe I'm known as more untrustworthy, don't you think?”

Still no reply, so Sherlock fought on.

“And you, you're the loyal one. The one I can always count to rely on. To trust.”

Sherlock made it to the top, and moved around to John's front. Apparently these had all been the wrong thing to say, as John's face was covered in silent tears.

Bugger.

Sherlock continued anyway, this was his only plan.

“John, I'm going to need you to trust that the next things I say are true.” Sherlock waited for a response, and then continued on when there was none, “you don't remember, because it never happened to you, but you did tell me about today.” Johns brow furrowed in confusion, “you mentioned that today was hard for you, several times in fact.”

John looked up at him, “I never said that..”

“No, not this today, but for the past several weeks I have been reliving September 20th over and over again. The only thing that ever changes, is you.”

John stared at him for a moment, his face fighting between anger and bewilderment. The anger won out. Swiping his blood free hand over his eyes John turned away from Sherlock and stomped towards his room. “This isn't fucking funny, Sherlock.”

Sherlock followed, “No, I very much agree. But I believe that the key to breaking my time loop is figuring out what it is about today that upsets you so much!”

John's door slammed in his face.

“No, John, listen to me!”

“Go away Sherlock! I am really not in the mood for your fucking games!”

“No, John-” Sherlock broke off with the sound of John's lock being set. He had never heard that before.

Huh.. did that mean John hadn't actually locked him out all the other nights Sherlock had done this?

He would ponder that later.

“John, please-”

“I tell you what, Sherlock. How about, tomorrow, or earlier today, or whenever you seem to think I'm not going to remember this, you talk to me about it. Because right now I can't really decide which of us I hate more.... I'm not really good at making decisions in this frame of mind. I might end up shooting something..”

Sherlock sighed and rested his head against the door, listening to John as he moved around his room. Putting on his nightclothes, fixing his hand. It wasn't until he heard John get into the bed that he called out again.

“If you were calmer.. do you think you would have believed me?”

“If I were calmer... I think I would have listened.”

Okay. That was all he needed.

“Good night, John.”

“Good night, Sherlock.”

Sherlock watched as the light underneath the crack of the door was turned off.

He made his way downstairs, lying on the couch. He planned on forming an argument he could make so that John would believe him.

Instead, he spent the rest of the night thinking of memories of John.

His friend, who had apparently never actually locked him out of his room.

Until today.

Images of John in nothing but a towel flittered through Sherlock's mind. Blushing violently, Sherlock tried to push those thoughts away. What was wrong with him?

But somehow they kept popping up again. And every time they did, Sherlock took longer to push them away.

  


  


Day 47:

Sherlock sat at the table watching John eat his toast, thinking. He had to trust to be trusted.

But he had already tried trusting John, it hadn't ended well.

What was he meant to say, anyway? "John, I've been trapped in a time loop for over a month. Please help me?" Preposterous.

"You've what?" John was staring at him, mouth hanging open and still half full of toast.

He'd said that out loud. Bugger.

"Um. Been stuck in a time loop?"

"What, like in Doctor Who?"

"I'm not..."

"Right, nevermind, but it is a sci fi thing?"

"I'm not sure.."

John gave him a stern look, "are you high?"

"For some of the days, yes. Not right now though."

"Alright..” John seemed to choose to ignore those, “How could I help?"

"I'm not actually sure. I didn't think you would believe me..."

There was an awkward pause between them. Sherlock was about to stand up and call the whole thing a joke when John broke the silence.

"Of course I believe you, Sherlock. You're my best friend."

There was that feeling again. Warm and light, rising up in his chest. He smiled at John, one of his real smiles.

He knew John would be able to tell it was real, and was rewarded with a smile back.

"Alright," John clapped his hands together and then stood up, making his way towards the stairs.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, they hadn't even planned anything yet.

"To get dressed, can't go about solving time loops in pyjama pants," John replied with a grin. "Oh, and call the clients, would you? Don't want random strangers walking in on us talking like loonies."

Sherlock grinned back. By this point the clients were hardly strangers to him, but he did what he was told. For once.

 

Ten minutes later they were seated in their respective chairs facing each other. John with a particularly thoughtful look on his face.

Sherlock was curious as to where this would go. John had always been a wonderful conductor of light.

"So, how long has this been going on for?"

"This will be my 47th Thursday."

"Tell me what happened the first time around."

Interesting tactic. Sherlock obliged, "I woke up at 8 am, came out here to find you eating your toast. We both got ready before the clients arrived at 11. We spent the next few hours talking to each, I decided to only follow through with one of them, the rest were too boring. Afterwards I came home to do an experiment, you went out somewhere, a pub, I later discovered. I stayed up rather late, you came home at some point in the night, we both went to bed. I woke up again and it was the same day."

John sat thinking about this for a few moments. Sherlock prepared to answer what the experiment had been, as that would obviously be his first question. John always liked to blame things on Sherlock's experiments.

It wasn't.

"So the clients... Were they all.. Normal? To you?"

"The clients? They were all boring. Even the vaguely interesting one." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, John was getting off track. He was the most interesting thing of this day, not the idiotic clients.

"Are you sure? Think back. Did anything stand out differently on the first day then the others?"

"Yes."

John smiled, "good. What?"

"You."

John frowned, "what?"

"You're the only thing that ever changes! Your reactions to today are always unpredictable!"

Johns frown deepened, "alright we're not talking about me. We're talking about the clients, Sherlock. Besides, you wouldn't have been paying attention to me the first day round."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "why would we talk about the clients when obviously..." But as he began to think back, John was right. Something was off.

He stood up and ran to John's notes for today, grabbing and scanning the list of today's clients.

"Someone's missing." Sherlock barely whispered.

"What?"

"There was another woman, she's not on the list."

"Can you remember her name?"

"Yes, I think so..." Sherlock turned around, eyes wide, "John, how did you..?"

John have him a tight smile, "heard some stories of something similar in Afghanistan. Some witchcraft voodooy spells cast on ungrateful or uncaring men. Never really believed them. Though it happens all around the world apparently."

Afghanistan. It always came back to that, why?

John coughed awkwardly, "anyway. If you want to track this woman down we better get a move on, before you run out of time."

"Yes, of course," sherlock answered but his eyes were still on John, his mind still focused on John.

John. Afghanistan. Something important happening today that agitated him, changed everything, but was always inevitable. He thought about what John had said.. uncaring men.

And suddenly Sherlock knew why this day was so traumatic.

"Today was the day you were shot." It was a statement, not a question. John apparently felt the need to answer anyway.

"..yea. Last year today I was pulling a bullet out of my own shoulder.." John made a noise that may have been an attempt at a laugh. It failed miserably. "I wasn't going to tell you."

He avoided Sherlock's gaze, hunching in on himself. Sherlock thought of all the pain that his friend suffered on this day and wished to the depths of his soul that he could stop it.

  


Cautiously he stepped closer to John, unsure of how to comfort. Verbally? Physically? A hand came up and touched John's cheek; it took Sherlock a moment to realize that it was his. Emboldened that John hadn't immediately pushed him away Sherlock curved his hand around John's cheek, studying his face by touch. Research, that's what this was. Not a caress at all. But then there was a blur of movement and something crushing against his face.

Lips. There were lips on his lips. Crushing, moving. They felt amazing.

What was going on?

Sherlock followed the movement. Their lips curved around each other, tongues licked and sucked, teeth bit and pulled. God, why hadn't they done this ages ago? There was a hand on his back, pulling him towards John. He gladly went. A hand in his hair pulling him more to the side. He followed that too. John was amazing at this! Every turn he directed made the kiss that much better. Sherlock moved his hand back to Johns face (he'd lost track of it at some point in the kissing), and was met with wetness. Right, yes. Friend having an emotional crisis, not good to take advantage of that. Sherlock tried to pull away, but John followed. He pulled back farther, and John gave a little shove.

He ended up on the couch with a lap full of John. His heart gave a flutter of pleasure at that, but his brain frowned. This has not been what he had wanted. "John, what-uh!" Lips on his neck felt spectacular! But, no, "John-"

"Sshh, bit busy."

"But-"

"Make me forget, Sherlock." John leaned back but didn't look up to Sherlock's eyes, "I just want to forget this day. Please."

John wanted to forget, that's all this was. Sherlocks heart ached, which was confusing. He'd found what he could do to help John, that was good, yes? Why did his heart hurt? Ignoring that for now, Sherlock nodded. This was for John. "Alright." John looked up and studied him for a moment, and then commenced in the kissing.

They kissed for ages. They kissed for years. Or maybe they only kissed for a few minutes, Sherlock really didn't know.

Johns hands started undoing Sherlocks shirt, making his heart pound inside his chest. He hoped John didn't notice this, he really didn't want it to stop. Johns hands were all over him. His chest, his hair, his back, his thighs. Sherlock risked some touches himself to see if this was mutually welcome. Excited, he explored the muscles on John's sides, how his skin felt when he leaned forward to deepen the kiss. He felt the firmness of Johns buttocks, and the curve of his lower back. He felt John's erection bulging against his trousers, similar to his own, and met Johns grinding with his own upward thrusts.

But this wasn't enough, John wanted more. His hands scrambled at Sherlocks belt, and a hand was shoved inside.

Sherlock has only ever gotten this far with someone once, so he was at a bit of a loss. He just continued to pet John's body and hoped John would tell him what he wanted. But then John was unbuckling his own belt, and Sherlock felt a spike of fear. Would John want to.. How far was John wanting to go? John manhandled them both until Sherlock was lying on his back with John splayed on top of him, his heart beating out of his chest. But Sherlock's fears were for nothing, he soon discovered, as John pulled both their erections out to hold in one of his hands.

The feeling of his cock pressed up against John's, and John's hand around it, it was ecstasy.

Sherlock moved his hand to join Johns, wrapping it around their members. John bent down to suck and bit at Sherlocks neck, and Sherlock retaliated by clawing and caressing Johns back and arse. All too soon their breath became ragged, their movements irregular. John came with Sherlock's name on his lips, and that alone would have been enough to make Sherlock see stars. Afterwards, they slumped into each other, sharing the same heaving breaths. Sherlock would gladly repeat this day for the rest of his life if it always included this.

Sherlock didn't know how much time had passed, but John began to wiggle, moving away. Panic once again cracked through Sherlock's heart. He had forgotten that this was just a one time thing for John, of course they wouldn't cuddle after wards. John walked towards the bathroom, and Sherlock pretended like his life wasn't shattering into a million pieces.

His breath began coming in quick bursts and when he tried to lift his hands to get his clothes and regain some dignity, his hands were a shaking mess. Maybe this was why he's been living the day over and over again, it was a way to protect himself against whatever this was.

He really must have been out of it as he didn't even hear John return, he was just suddenly there, holding his hands.

"Jesus, Sherlock, you alright? What's wrong?"

Sherlock didn't know, he couldn't answer. He shook his head.

"Alright, it's okay. Just breath,"a wet flannel was pressed to his forehead.

"Where did..?" Sherlock pointed to his head.

"This was meant to clean us up, but this is more important."

Clean them up? Sherlock looked down to see his and Johns chest, covered in the residual of their afternoon activity.

"Oh. You weren't. You're not-" Sherlock couldn't say it.

This was ridiculous. They sat together in silence, listening to Sherlock's breathing even out. John eventually did use the flannel to wipe them off, although not as efficiently as it would have been. When he was done, he directed Sherlock to lie on the couch, and then surprised him by lying on top of him again.

"Not leaving, then."

"Leaving?"

God damn it, could he not think inside his own head anymore?!

John lifted his head and looked down at Sherlock with concern, "was that what you thought? That I would just have a quick shag and then leave you there in a mess?"

"..I hadn't expected-"

"Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to do that with you?"

"I - what?"

"For the past eight months you've flaunted yourself in front of me, I'm not letting you go that easily."

"So it wasn't just a one time thing?"

"No... Unless, you want it to be?"

"No! No.. I hadn't... Realized this was something I wanted until very recently.. But you never remembered the next day."

"I hope I remember this day,” John said gently, his hand moving in circles against the skin on Sherlocks stomach.

"Me too."

They both fell off into a comfortable sleep, collapsed around each other. They awoke around five, and decided to go get Indian (John suggested Chinese, but that was not happening again anytime soon.) They talked and laughed through the meal. John held his hand on the walk home. Sherlock noted there was no limp tonight. They sat and kissed some more on the couch, and then snuggled with some John made tea (the best tea). Eventually, they ended up curled around each other in John's bed. Sherlock glanced at the clock and was surprised to see that it was nearing 4 am.

"You won't remember this all in 4 hours," Sherlock heard himself saying. Because apparently he had no filter anymore.

John smirked back at him, "you can always remind me."

Sherlock scowled, "I'm serious."

"So am I. This wasn't a one day thing Sherlock, I've wanted you for a long time. Any sign you want the same and I'll be there." John was smiling at him with his gentle doctor smile. It always made Sherlock feel safe. “And besides if it does repeat, you could actually go find that woman instead of shagging me on the couch – although I wouldn't mind that again.”

They both laughed at that. Sherlock decided that he really would not mind spending this day over, one with a laughing, happy, John.

“Thank you, by the way,” John added when they quieted down, sounding shy. Which was perhaps the only time Sherlock had ever heard John sound shy.

“For what?” he asked, genuinely curious. After all, it was John he should be thanking, for making this boring day worth while.

“For helping me forget.”

Ah, right.

Sherlock had never been good at verbally comforting someone with placating words. So he pulled John in closer, hugging him a bit tighter, and said the truth instead, “I would do anything for you, John.”

John responded by curling further into Sherlock as well. If there were tears in his eyes, neither of them mentioned it.

In the safe cocoon of their entangled bodies John fell into a restful sleep. Sherlock watched him go with a smile.

Without planning to, Sherlock also fell asleep that night, wrapped in John's arms.

And woke up in John's arms the next morning, September 21st, 9 am.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :)


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